


run, rabbit, run

by Bundibird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, SO, Which I do, also, but then, but then there are pancakes, don't argue, except for the part where she then forces him to excercise, except that then Lydia's in his room choosing clothes for him, he doesn't know how this happened, if you want to see it that way - Freeform, life-or-death sprints through the woods aren't fun, lydia always gets what she wants, neither does stiles, optional stydia, or they could just be bros, personally, stiles is seriously unfit, teenagers bemuse the Sheriff, that part's not so awesome, that part's not so bad, this is a thing that must change, which makes the sheriff happy, why is stiles passed out on his lawn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bundibird/pseuds/Bundibird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, Stiles being ridiculously unfit leads to Lydia standing on his front doorstep in running clothes, demanding that Stiles get changed and join her. </p>
<p>"What?" she asks, as Stiles blinks at her outfit with significant surprise. "You don't think I keep this body looking how it does without any kind of maintenance, do you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	run, rabbit, run

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of fun, whipped up this afternoon and inspired by the fact I decided to go running the other day, and WOW I am way less fit than I thought I was. And I hardly thought I was fit. Then I came home and watched the episode of TW where Stiles ran messages between Allison and Scott, and wound up gasping for breath against the lockers. And here we are. 
> 
> This is set sometime post S2, with no S3 influences (because Australia is stuck in the dark ages and we still haven't seen S3).

**…**

**run, rabbit, run**

**…**

 

It starts with a run-for-your-life sprint through the woods.

 

Literally. Stiles is _literally_ running for his life, and he’s in agony. He’s in agony because he’s got the mother of all stitches lancing up his side and his legs are burning and his lungs feel like they’re on fire, but he can’t stop because there’s a feral omega on his ass and if he pauses for even a second to get his breath back it’s all gonna end in blood and pain and death. _His_ blood and pain and death, to be specific.

 

And then, oh, sweet saviours, the wolves – _his_ wolves, the good ones, the ones that _don’t_ want to kill him (most of the time) – flying in from stage left, clawed and be-fanged, swooping in and launching themselves at the omega and _thank Batman,_ Stiles can stop running now.

 

And, well, Stiles doesn’t “stop running” so much as “collapse in a heap on the ground and gasp for breath,” but eh. Details.

 

He’s still lying there, gasping like a dying fish and holding one hand to the stitch in his side when Allison and Lydia – who’d been left in the dust when the werewolves all took off in pursuit of the omega in pursuit of Stiles – rock up.

 

“For someone who spends most of his days running for his life through the woods, you’re pretty unfit,” Lydia says, and she’s not even puffed. _Neither_ of them is puffed, what the hell? Stiles is lying on the ground unable to even speak yet, but Lydia and Allison are standing there all serene and perfect.

 

“How much exercise do you actually do, Stiles?” Allison asks, and maybe it’s weird that they’re three humans having a somewhat regular conversation while their pack of werewolves shreds a feral omega just a few feet away, but really, this is just a regular Friday afternoon for them.

 

Stiles flaps his hand around in a vaguely irritated air in response to Allison’s question, still heaving desperately and making sounds like he’s dying, and Allison takes the gesture to mean “I regularly run for my life through the woods; is that not _enough_ exercise?” which is an accurate interpretation.

 

Lydia picks up on the translation as well, apparently, because she huffs and looks at him in disapproval.

 

“You really should work on your fitness,” she says. “Your chances of being mauled to death because you lack stamina would be drastically decreased if you were capable of running for more than half a mile.”

 

Stiles, who _still_ can’t speak (priorities: oxygen first, words later), flaps his hand again, this time in a “Yeah, yeah, I’ll get on that – fit it in some time in between homework and school and research for you lot and keeping my dad healthy and keeping this ridiculous pack alive” manner.

 

Allison and Lydia correctly interpret that gesture too, and roll their eyes in sync.

 

…

 

Lydia apparently decides to take the matter of Stiles’ fitness into her own hands, because she shows up early (like, _early)_ on Saturday morning in sneakers, a tank top and fitted pants, hair up in a pony-tail.

 

“Go get changed,” are her opening words, the second Stiles opens the front door. “We’re going running.”

 

And there are so, so many things that Stiles wants to say in response to this whole weird and unexpected situation.

 

First and foremost being: “…It’s seven am.”

 

“Yes, it is,” Lydia agrees, and tosses her hair back over her shoulder. “Go get changed.”

 

Stiles blinks at her. This… really does not compute. Lydia Martin is standing on his doorstep at seven am in a running outfit demanding that he go get changed and join her. His brain is blearily asking what is happening.

 

“It’s Saturday,” is what he says, and mock him all you like but it’s _seven am on a Saturday morning_ and he’s standing at his front door in boxers and a ratty old t-shirt because he was still asleep five minutes ago. Because it is _offensively early on a Saturday morning_ and Stiles doesn’t know why this is happening.

 

Lydia huffs a little, getting impatient now.

 

“ _Yes,_ it’s Saturday, which means you have nowhere to be, which means we’re going running. Tell me you have actual sneakers you can use, and not just those beaten up Converse shoes you practically live in.”

 

Stiles does not have actual sneakers, as it happens, and he doesn’t _live in_ his Converse, thank you very much, but none of that’s important right now.

 

“Why are we going running at seven am on Saturday morning?” he asks, and Lydia rolls her eyes so hard that Stiles thinks she must have pulled something.

 

“Because morning is the best time to run,” she says, and brushes past him into the house, clearly fed up with waiting for him to get his act together. “Don’t tell me you were still asleep; I’ve been up for an hour.”

 

“What? _Why?”_ Stiles asks, because being awake at six am on any day is a serious crime against humanity, and Stiles thinks it should be downright _illegal_ for weekends. “Also, what are you doing?” Because Lydia’s not only just waltzed into Stiles’ house like she’s there all the time, she’s also now marching up the stairs like she lives there.

 

“Hurrying you up,” she responds as he follows her up the stairs, feeling more than a little lost. “You can’t go running in boxers, and frankly, it’s becoming apparent that you need to be given a little direction, here.”

 

At the top of the stairs now, she pokes her head through doorways until she finds the one that’s obviously Stiles’, whereupon she walk inside and goes straight up to his dresser to pull open the top drawer.

 

Lydia Martin, Goddess of Beauty, Inspirer of Men, focus of the world’s most epic and long-lived crush, is in Stiles’ house, in his _room,_ going through his drawers with a purpose and confidence that is Miss L Martin TM.

 

Stiles is 98% certain that he’s dreaming.

 

All in all, while he _has_ had _better_ dreams that involve Lydia Martin in his bedroom, this one’s not too bad. It would be borderline _awesome_ , in fact, were it not from the part where _he’s about to go running at seven am on Saturday morning._

 

“Here, put these on,” Lydia says after a few moments, holding out a bundle of clothes with the expression that Stiles years ago dubbed as her “Your Highness” face. It’s the face a Queen might wear when telling one of her subjects to do something. The one that says, “I have no doubt at all that this will be done, because _I_ am asking for it and I am the Queen, and what I say goes.”

 

Stiles blinks again and reaches for the clothes, because he knows better than to deny that face. He’s read history books. He knows what happens to people who say “no” to Queens.

 

“They’re hardly the best thing to go running in, but they seem to be the best option out of what you’ve got here,” Lydia is saying, and Stiles manages to realign his focus from facts about Queens and subjects and punishments back to Lydia in time to hear her say, “We’ll have to get you some proper running gear, but this will do for today.”

 

The _this will do for today_ part manages to fight it’s way past the sleepy haze in Stiles’ brain to register with a sense of doom, because _this will do for today_ clearly implies that this is going to be a _more-than-once_ kinda thing. And he could totally, totally get on board with spending more time with Lydia – one on one time, it seems, and isn’t that just what he’s been _dreaming_ of achieving for _years_ – but they’re seriously going to have to negotiate about the times, because Lydia or not, Stiles is not going to routinely start getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to go running.

 

“Get changed and meet me down stairs in three minutes,” Lydia says, striding towards the door without a backwards glance. “If you’re not there by then, I’m coming back up with a glass of iced water to see if _that_ will wake you up.”

 

And she totally would, too; Stiles has _zero_ doubt that she would throw a glass of water and icecubes at him and then make him go running in wet clothes.

 

He’s still only got a borderline comprehension of what’s going on right now, but he’s cognitive enough to take the threat seriously enough that he’s down stairs two and a half minutes later.

 

He’s still not fully awake when he gets there, but he’s getting on his way. The sweat pants and t-shirt that Lydia chose for him all on right-way-out, at least, and he’s on his feet and his eyes are open, and all of the above is an achievement that Stiles thinks he should he praised for.

 

Lydia raises a disapproving eyebrow when she sees the Converse shoes that are peeking out from under the sweatpant cuffs, but lets it slide with just a mutter about getting that sorted when they get him proper running clothes. Stiles feels a vague need to point out that he doesn’t run, so therefore of _course_ he doesn’t have running shoes, and _sorry_ but the Chucks are as good as it gets, but ultimately, that all seems like too much effort, so he lets it slide.

 

Lydia’s repeated comments about “getting him proper running gear” (and the fact that she stands up from the couch in a smooth movement as he comes down stairs and flips her hair over her shoulder, all of which draws his attention in a variety of different Lydia-focused directions) manage to re-divert Stiles’ attention to her clothes, and he realises for the first time that she’s wearing an _actual_ running outfit, not a “what clothes do I own that are suitable for going running in” outfit, like his own.

 

Her tank top has the symbol for some sports brand scrawled across it; what Stiles had thought were just fitted pants are _actual_ running pants, with the compression patches and everything, and a symbol on the hip that matches the one on the tank top; and the running shoes have flecks of colour on them that match the rest of her outfit, because of course Lydia would be fashion conscious even regarding her exercise clothes.

 

Anyway. All of this points to one fact that Stiles feels like he should have worked out earlier.

 

“You run,” he says intelligently, and ok, he totally deserves the raised eyebrow he gets in response. “No, like, you go running. Frequently. Seriously. Not just, _hey, let’s go exercise once in a blue moon;_ you actually _go running.”_

 

Not his most eloquently worded sentence, but then, Stiles is hardly known for eloquence even when he’s fully awake, so.

 

Lydia’s eyebrow is still raised.

 

“Well you don't think I keep this body looking how it does without any kind of maintenance, do you?" she asks, while Stiles is still blinking at her surprisingly professional outfit. “Now let’s go. We’ve been standing around here long enough.”

 

She strides towards the door without another word, and Stiles blinks vaguely and wonders what became of his Saturday morning before he dutifully follows her.

 

…

 

Stiles is now officially aware of two things that he hadn’t been aware of yesterday.

 

One: he is woefully unfit. He’d been peripherally aware of this, sure, but had been of the naïve belief that – while he wasn’t _super_ fit – he wasn’t _too_ bad. Ok, so he wouldn’t be winning any athletics competitions, but he could run when he needed to, and he could get a fair distance before giving in to the desire to keel over and die. Anyway, it’s not like he does _no_ exercise. He’s on the Lacrosse team afterall; his fitness is fine.

 

Except: wrong, apparently. Doing a few suicide runs and then throwing a ball around for a bit a few times a week does not equate to good stamina in _any way shape or form_ , and proper fitness includes _stamina,_ apparently.

 

Which leads to point two: Lydia Martin, Goddess of Beauty, Inspirer of Men, focus of the world’s most epic and long-lived crush, and many other things besides, is _the world’s most unforgiving personal trainer._

 

She hadn’t had him running the whole time, but instead had implemented a structure involving power-walking for a while, then jogging, then _sprinting,_ which is supposedly good for building stamina, blah, blah, blah, and it _sounds_ like it wouldn’t be worse than just straight up running non-stop around the neighbourhood, except that it _so was._

 

Sheriff Stilinski’s cruiser is in the driveway by the time Stiles finally collapses on their front lawn, totally and completely physically incapable of even _contemplating_ the three steps that will lead him to the front door, beyond which lies a glass of water and a couch that Stiles can pass out on. Water and couches can come later; for now, the patch of poorly tended grass next to his dad’s car is perfectly fine, thank you very much.

 

“This is an unexpected sight for eight-thirty on Saturday morning,” the Sheriff says, coming out the front door and leaning against the railing, one eyebrow quirked up at the sight of his son collapsed on the ground with his eyes shut and Lydia Martin standing over him with an unimpressed expression. He must have seen them arrive, and Stiles doesn’t blame him for being curious. This _is_ an unexpected sight for eight-thirty on a Saturday morning.

 

“Is it only eight-thirty?” Stiles gasps out, somehow forcing the words past his burning lungs. “Surely it’s later than that. I feel like I’ve been running for _years.”_

 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Lydia huffs, which, rude, coming from the Queen of Hair-Flicks and Catwalk Strides and Dramatic Entrances herself. She turns to the Sheriff then, who’s still watching the pair of them with a bemused expression, and says, “Stiles is terribly unfit. I’m helping him get into shape.”

 

“You’re a cruel and unusual woman,” Stiles groans, flopping weakly like he wants to flail but can’t find the energy to fuel such an action. “And you’re a horrible task master.”

 

Lydia is not offended in the slightest.

 

“One day you might have to have to run for your life, and then you’ll be thankful for this,” she says, and Stiles is glad she had the forethought not to say _run for your life **again,**_ or something equally damning, considering that his father knows absolutely nothing about the number of life-or-death sprints Stiles has taken part in over this last year.

 

Stiles just groans in response and finally gathers enough energy to roll over onto his stomach, from where he somehow manages to push himself to his hands and knees.

 

“Water,” he says, beginning the long trek to the porch steps (it’s all of five feet from where he was lying, but he’s utterly exhausted and everything seems like far more effort than it’s worth right now). “And then pancakes. And then _coffee._ ”

 

Stiles senses the way his dad brightens at that, but Lydia says, “Pancakes are hardly a nutritional breakfast, Stiles. And coffee’s not particularly good for you either. I’m sure you can do better than that.”

 

“We’ll have fruit on them,” Stiles says, undeterred, and finally reaching the bottom step, which he stares at like the power of his glare alone will transform it into an escalator that will carry him to the kitchen without him having to move a muscle. “And you dragged me out of bed at _seven on a Saturday morning_ to go running _._ I _deserve_ pancakes and coffee. And you’re going to help me make them.”

 

He _feels_ the eyebrow that Lydia arches at him.

 

“Did you forget the part where keeping myself looking like this requires _maintenance?_ Pancakes are hardly going to help with that.”

 

“You go running for an hour and a half every day, apparently,” Stiles replies, and he’s clambered onto the first step now, _yes_. Two more to go. “You can afford a plate of pancakes. And if you say that you don’t want them, you’re lying. Everyone always wants pancakes. Anyway. We have fruit. Fruit’s healthy. So no arguments.”

 

Lydia sighs the sigh of the long suffering, but follows Stiles inside (once he finally makes it up the steps, past his still-amused-and-bemused father and in through the front door).

 

They start the pancakes, and Stiles wraps himself around a mug of coffee and moans that he’s going to be in agony later, and when the pancakes are finally done Stiles piles his high with syrup and bananas and more syrup and Lydia buries hers underneath a mountain of miscellaneous fruit and Sheriff Stilinski tries to get away with just syrup but Stiles bullies him to adding some apple.

 

Once they’re done and the dishes are in the sink to be dealt with later, Stiles announces that he’s going to go and have a nap and Lydia rolls her eyes at him but says “See you tomorrow morning,” which, what?

 

“We’re running again tomorrow,” she says, when he expresses his sentiment out loud. “I said I’d get you fit. You can’t do that going running just once a week.”

 

Which, ok, fair, and this whole “getting fit” lark is probably a good idea considering how much time he spends running for his life, but there are _boundaries._ He’s a teenaged guy who likes sleeping in – they’ve got to set some ground rules for this thing.

 

“Ok, fine, but how about we go in the evening, yeah?”

 

Lydia’s already shaking her head, _why?_

“Mornings are the best time for runs. It increases blood flow to your brain which makes learning easier. You run in the mornings, you’re more intelligent.”

 

Stiles would argue the case more – he would – but he _knows_ Lydia, and he knows what she looks like when she’s absolutely not going to budge on a topic. Which means: compromise.

 

“Ok, fine – but can we make it sometime in the morning that’s _not_ seven am? It’s the _weekend_ Lydia. Weekends are for _sleeping in._ My body will actually rebel against me if I make it get up before seven too many times on a weekend.”

 

Lydia purses her lips and narrows her eyes at him, looking reluctant, but eventually relents.

 

“Fine. Eight am. But I want you outside and ready to go at eight am, not just getting up.”

 

Stiles wants to cry. He really does. Because eight am is still way too early for a Sunday, in his opinion, but he can see that he’s not going to get any better than that.

 

“…Fine,” he finally agrees, exhaling heavily, defeated, and Lydia smiles smugly at him and turns, flounces down the hallway and lets herself out the front door, calling out a cheerful “See you tomorrow morning!” over her shoulder as she goes.

 

Stiles groans loudly and flops down to rest his head on his arms on the table.

 

“So, Lydia Martin’s making you go running in the mornings?” the Sheriff asks after a moment, and the amusement is clear in his voice. “So I guess she’s finally worked out that you exist, huh?”

 

Stiles groans again and doesn’t bother lifting his head.

 

“I think I liked it better when she didn’t,” he grumbles, and it’s a total lie, and everyone knows it.

 

Stiles’ dad is entirely unsympathetic when he huffs a laugh, claps Stiles on the shoulder and snags the last pancake as he makes his way out of the kitchen.

 

Stiles doesn’t find the energy to move from the kitchen table for a long time, and even when he does, it’s only enough to manage the distance between the kitchen and the couch.

 

…


End file.
